


A Crown to Keep

by Coats



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: 31st Hunger Games, AU, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 22:48:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1486996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coats/pseuds/Coats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Charlie Kuhn, a 17-year-old with nothing to lose, faces the Hunger Games in her sister's place, no one is prepared for the events that follow. She is faced with a game of life and death, in which the titles of 'enemy' and 'friend' appear seamlessly interchangeable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

# The Reaping

> As I move to grab my ragged jacket from the old coat rack perched by the front door, I can already tell we’re going to be late. Clifford still hasn’t woken up, and while I understand no one wants to wake up for the morning of the reaping, he knows it isn’t optional. This will be his third reaping, as he’s only 14 years young; he’s mandated to attend again this year. Last year went smoothly, considering all four of us who were eligible for the Games were not selected. Out of our huge family of six kids, we’d all been lucky enough to survive another culling of the kids our district had. This year, however, only Elysia and Abner—our youngest and oldest—are safe from being selected as tribute. Shifting my gaze away from the coat in my hands, I can’t help but watch them as they sit at the kitchen table. Abner, his body mature with ripe muscles and hair the color of only the darkest nights, is laughing. It’s a deep laugh, one that matches perfectly to a boy of 19 years. His big hands, normally used to haul heavy rolls of textiles to and from loading carts, grabs at my youngest sister, Elysia. She squeals as he tickles her, lighting up the solemn group of children in the room that is trying to forget that one of us could be sentenced to death this very day.
> 
> “Take it easy with her, Abner,” it’s Arlo’s voice that draws my attention next. As he enters the room, fully clothed in a nice suit for the reaping, he doesn’t waste time looking in the cabinets for food we don’t have. We’re on our last pennies of our paychecks, having spent a majority of the cash on a reaping outfit for Phineas after discovering Abner’s hand-me-downs didn’t fit him at all. Most of us are accustomed to not having breakfast anyways, but having something to nibble on to quell the nerves would have been nice. Breaking a smile, I slip on my coat and head back to the table.
> 
> “Is Clifford up yet?” my words are blunt, as I’m irritated with my younger brother for refusing to wake up. Trying to avoid the morning by sleeping through it wasn’t going to make it go away.
> 
> “He was putting on his suit when I walked past his room,” Arlo replies as he smooths back his hair again. “Do I look alright? I want to look good for my very last reaping,” he gives a cheeky grin as I roll my eyes.
> 
> “You know you look like the trash you are,” I sneer playfully, knowing full and well that it will get under his skin. While he knows we are not the garbage that our reputation portrays, Arlo is the only one of us who really lets it get to him when people bring up our family’s ‘legacy’. He’s always the first one to react, always the first to throw a punch in defense of the Kuhn name. It’s not like the rest of us don’t care, it’s just that it is harder for us to find the same fire he does. If our mother is known for being a tramp in order to get bread on the table sometimes, there’s nothing we can do about it. She slept around to get food in our mouths while we were growing up, so I can’t complain. Even with the majority of us older kids working honest jobs nowadays, we still carry some kind of tarnished titles from our last name. It’s more than evident what people think of us, especially when we constantly get questioned if we are all from the same father. Our mother having six kids and no husband leaves a lot of room for the imagination, even if she swears up and down that we all do have the same one. It has never mattered to me; we’re still all family at the end of the day.
> 
> I catch Arlo glaring at me before hearing the sound of Clifford’s feet dragging against the floor as the he makes his way to our small family gathering. His eyes are partially open, but I can tell immediately that he didn’t get much sleep at all last night. They also look a little puffy, which leads me to believe that maybe he was crying. A slight frown tugs at my lips, but I know he won’t like it if I bring it up in front of Abner and Arlo, so I stay quiet.
> 
> “Amelia was crying all last night,” his words make the room hushed. Somehow, in all our own nerves and feelings, we’d forgotten how emotional Amelia always gets for the reapings. Instantly, I feel Abner and Arlo both staring me down. I normally fulfill the role our mother has so miserably failed to perform. While I’m nothing like a mother, I am the only mature woman in the house. I barely meet the standards of mature most of the time, simply because I’m much too carefree and wild. The only reason I’m often sent to deal with the younger kids is because my brothers have such a hard time with it. As our real mom is never around, I handle damage control on my younger siblings most of the time. I hated it at first, but now, I’d do anything to make sure my siblings are ok. They mean the world to me.
> 
> As I approach the door that belongs to Amelia, I can hear sniffles of drying tears.
> 
> “I’m fine, Charlie,” Amelia's voice deflates my determination to make her feel better. My brothers are as stubborn as my father, but not nearly as wise. They don’t talk about what they’re feeling or thinking. Amelia, on the other hand, has always opened up to me. I know she looks up to me, as I’m the closest thing to a mother she’ll ever have. I’m just her big sister, but I’m still better than the random woman who pops up every once in a while with a handful of cash and a stale loaf of bread.
> 
> “Are you?” I begin adjusting the bow in her hair that I made her once from leftover textiles from the factory where I work, making sure the rough craft does look somewhat like a decent hair accessory. My brown eyes wander a little. Up close, it’s easy to see her eyelashes are wet.
> 
> “I am. Just thinking about Mom, is all,” she shrugs like it isn’t a big deal.
> 
> “I’m here if you want to talk,” I say while trying to find her dress shoes from underneath her bed.
> 
> “I know.” She’s only thirteen, but sounds so grown. I can tell she’s in no mood to discuss the stranger we call our mother.
> 
> “Tell you what,” the grin on my face reveals the mischievous idea forming in my mind, “Let’s make a deal.” Out of all my siblings, besides maybe Elysia, Amelia enjoys games and bets more than anything. Of course, that excludes the Hunger Games. She never found quite the same passion for those kinds of games and odds as she did with others. I’m personally thankful for that. Even so, Amelia was a gambler by heart. Born and raised like some kind of con-artist, she always had a talent of getting people to make foolish deals. She could easily engage almost anyone in some kind of test or competition, just in order to win something good in the end. With the mention that I was ready to participate in a new bet, Amelia’s face lit up. It was the perfect idea to help the young girl forget about the upcoming Reaping.
> 
> “What kind of deal?” she peers up at me with interested eyes. She probably wants to swindle me out of the gum stash I have hidden away in my room.
> 
> “Whatever kind you want,” my answer is simple, because I don’t really care. It’s ultimately Amelia’s decision, just as long as she stops crying. Besides, I’m sure I’ll win whatever she decides anyway. I can be just as stubborn as my brothers and even more adamant when it comes to achieving a goal.
> 
> “I need time to think about it,” Amelia smiles before taking my hand. The trick seems to have done its job and as long as Amelia is preoccupied while they pull the names from the glass bowls on the stage, she should be able to keep it together for the ceremony.
> 
> With my entire family assembled, excluding my mom who never came home from last night, we’re ready to head out. Abner swings Elysia up onto his shoulders as we make our way to the door. Clifford and Amelia make nervous chatter as they walk behind them and I’m left to hang back with Arlo.
> 
> “Don’t know what you did, but thanks, Charlie,” his words only get a silent nod in response. I can feel the nerves starting to tighten a knot in my stomach.
> 
> District 8 was never a place for flare. The buildings that dot the land are all factories, each matched to the last in cookie-cutter fashion. The only thing that ever changes about them is the contents manufactured inside or the color of the smog that gets pumped out of the tall pillars protruding from their roofs. Sometimes, the belly of the factories finally empty of all their waste and the pipes become useless, but that is a rare occasion. Producing massive amounts of textiles, roll after roll of different cloths and fabrics, always seems to be a never-ending process due to the eccentric demands of the Capitol. No matter how much we produce, there is never enough fabric to go around when it comes to designing outfits for the fluctuating styles of Capitolites. With the overwhelming demands to produce and make more, my district sacrifices appearance to meet our quotas. We, along with our buildings, are made ugly by our own proficiency. This is why District 8 looks like nothing special, particularly where the Justice Building sleep along with the other dull structures that makes up the District Square. It is a bunch of grey brick and metal pieced together to make a district, most of it coated in a fine layer of grime from the surrounding smoke bellows.
> 
> Standing in the middle of the square, I am more disgusted by it than I am normally. Some may say I’m inclined to call District 8 ugly because I’m bitter about living in it, but I can tell from watching the past Hunger Games (particularly the reapings in different district squares) that other districts are far prettier than my own. It’s no different for the annual Reaping that is about to take place. Even with the banners featuring the Capitol’s seal and varying messages about honor and sacrifice, District 8 is ugly. Having taken my spot among the other 17-year-olds in the roped off section for my age group, I make it a point to watch out for my siblings. I know they’ll worry. They always will and I know I can’t stop them, but I still don’t like it. I try my damndest to make sure we get by and they’re happy, and I know we never have enough food or money, but I try. It makes me feel so guilty that, combined with Abner and Arlo, we don’t make enough to fully support everyone. It also makes me hate the woman who is supposed to make it where we don’t have to carry the entire family on our shoulders.
> 
> “Shall we begin?” our district’s escort, Saxon Saldano, talks a little too close to the microphone, making the words crackle and break. He steps back some, adjusting to prepare for another try. The plump man clears his throat and tugs nervously on the belt constricting the fat around his waist. I can’t understand why he’s so nervous when he’s been doing the same job for so many years. Some kids like to make rumors that one mistake from him and the president himself will order to have him ‘dealt with’. The Capitol has a short fuse for failures, but I’ve never believed that’s what always made him sweat so much. I’d like to think that he somehow realizes the cruelty of his occupation and maybe grasps the amount of pain he causes people each year. “The boys first,” he announces, making a collective groan rise from the males in the audience. I snicker a little at how insulted Saxon looks. My humor is short-lived however, as the pudgy man dips his hand into the bowl and pulls out a single piece of paper. “Levi Tucker,” he reads the name and everyone looks towards the 13-year-old section. I hardly recognize the name, but register the face when the trembling boy steps out of the sea of people. Levi is the boy who lives two houses down from us. I think Amelia might have class with him. Now, he looks like he might wet himself and when the Peacekeepers shove him to make him walk faster, he yelps like a baby. The boy certainly isn’t making any kind of good first impression. Who blames him though? He’s only Amelia’s age.
> 
> Levi takes to the stage, making a mess of himself by crying and getting snot all over his new suit. It’s not that I don’t feel sympathy for the kid because I honestly do; it’s just that I’m too nervous to find real pity in my system. The girl tribute is about to be read, for I see Saxon dips his hand into the girl’s bowl and retrieve a name. My fingers cross hopelessly by my side and I can’t breathe. “Amelia Kuhn,” the speakers boom the name and I see my little sister's pale face on the large screens around us. It is Amelia, my Amelia, who has been called to die. I feel a steadying hand press against my back and realize I’m leaning dangerously far to one side. My thoughts collide together in my mind like trains bound on intersecting rails. I can’t even process a legitimate idea or plan before the Peacekeepers block my view of Amelia. All I can grasp is the sound of Clifford calling out to Amelia and Eisley wailing from on top of Abner’s shoulders.
> 
> I move my head, just so I can watch my younger sister panic as the Peacekeepers urge her towards the stage where Levi waits silently. Both District 8’s tributes will be the same age of 13 if Amelia goes into the arena. One of the men in white armor places a hand on Amelia’s arm, in order to push her towards the stage, and I see hysteria burst across her face. She turns, rushing into the gap between two of the guards in an attempt to escape her fate. Her face breaks through the curtain of white surrounding her and she somehow finds my eyes. I realize I’m crying. Warm tears are rolling down my cheeks and I’m breathing oddly, trying to find a way to deal with what is actually happening.
> 
> “Charlie!” Amelia screams. Her voice is so high-pitched, so alive with fear; the other kids her age withdraw away from her. She’s doomed in their eyes, cursed to live and die in the arena for the entertainment of the Capitol. But she will die for them, instead of them, instead of me. If Amelia goes, we will all live. “Charlie! Don’t let them take me,” she’s yelling at me as I stare at her, my body shaking as I sob. She’s my little sister, begging for me to help her. I just can’t find my body. It’s like I’m watching from outside of it, waiting for someone—anyone—to step in and save her from tragedy. A Peacekeeper moves to grasp her small form, beginning to drag her towards the stairs. Amelia screams again, wailing and fighting as they struggle to bring her forward as District 8’s female tribute for the 31st Hunger Games. “I want to make a deal, Charlie!” she yells as a last resort. This sentence, this simple sentence, is the only thing that draws me out of my shocked stupor. It’s easy to understand what she wants, at least for me it is. Amelia wants to know if her life is enough to trade for mine. She wants to know if I’ll kill for her, die for her. Of course I will.
> 
> Before moving to part the crowd and enter the empty aisle beside the masses of people, I claw at the tears on my face. I can’t be emotional about saving my sister’s life in exchange for my own. “I volunteer as District 8’s female tribute,” my voice is loud enough to silence Amelia’s howling and release her from the Peacekeepers. The guards move to surround me, to make sure I get to the stage quickly as they have already spent too much time with my sister. One touches me with his gloved hand and I instantly shove him away. I’ll walk this on my own. Not needing another hint, the men back off to allow me to walk to my death alone. Arlo, like the good big brother he is, swoops in to collect the mess that is Amelia. As I move towards the stairs, I grin at her as she watches me all teary-eyed from his arms. “Sorry it took me so long,” my voice is confident, even though I’m so far from it, “Deal accepted.” I try hard to keep my words steady. I’ve stopped crying and the tears that flowed from Amelia’s panic earlier have long been dried. I must look nothing less than perfectly capable for these Games, now that I have taken the role as District 8’s tribute. When I step onto the stage, taking my position next to Levi, Saxon waddles towards me to pull me closer to the microphone.
> 
> “Let’s hear your name, dearie,” he smiles at me and offers me the chance to speak.
> 
> “If you didn’t catch my sister screaming it, I’d say you need to get your hearing checked,” my reply is snarky, enough so that Saxon retracts away from me like I’ve hit him. “But, just so everyone knows, I’m Charlie. Charlie Kuhn.”


	2. Chapter 2

# Farewell

> The hour allotted to tributes for saying good-bye to everyone they love is entirely not enough. My family alone would take the entire hour, if they could. It’s not like I love anyone else around District 8. I’m not going into the Games because of anyone besides my family . I volunteered for my sister, because we are family. I should be allowed the entire hour to them if I want. The Peacekeepers at least owe me that.
> 
> When my numerous family members finally enter the small room, all of them crowding into the suffocating space, I’m most surprised to see my mom. She moves across the floor quickly as she envelopes me in a hug. It feels like embracing a stranger. She smells of cheap booze and smoke. I know she can afford neither, so I assume she previously spent the night with some of her wealthier clients. Was it the mayor? Maybe a Peacekeeper? It doesn’t matter anymore. I move away from her quickly, filling my arms instead with Abner. His muscles entrap me tightly to him, pressing into me like I might up and disappear. He speaks loudly after pulling away, but I know he wishes he could talk to me alone.
> 
> “Charlie, out of all of us, you’d be the one to win,” he starts off and when I open my mouth to cut him off, he silences me with a harsh glance. “You’re smart and memorable. Make good allies. You can do it,” he squeezes my shoulder for good measure before passing me along to Arlo. I feel the hesitancy to let me go in his fingertips as they linger on my arm for a few long seconds.
> 
> “Well, looks like the prettiest of us gets to go make all the Capitol residents jealous,” my older brother tries to make me laugh, as he knows I hate it when he pokes fun at my appearance. His hand moves to brush my chin and for a moment, the cheeky grin on his face wavers like he’s seen a vision of the future. Is he just now realizing what I’ll look like when my body comes back in a coffin? My skin will turn pale and cold, so different from the dark tan and warm flesh I normally sport. I wonder if my black hair, normally so tame and soft, will be matted and wild from days of gore and survival. Then again, if I do last a few days, they clean the corpses well enough before shipping them home that it might look like I was never even in the arena. My death could seem like a simple, unfortunate accident. But maybe I won’t be in bad shape; I could always die on the first day in the bloodbath. One quick blow to my head or chest and they’d have to get my canon ready. My body wouldn’t look like a tragedy if I died quickly and early on. Maybe I want that.
> 
> His hands are shaking as he moves to hold me. I’ve never seen Arlo cry, but the Games have a way of bringing forth new sides of everyone. Looking up towards his face, I find dry cheeks and empty eyes. Is it selfish of me that I wish he would cry? He’s always been so good at hiding his feelings behind puns and laughs, but I can tell he has been humbled by whatever he realized while looking into my brown eyes. While not as defined as Abner’s, Arlo’s muscular arms threaten to squish me. He hugs me like I’ll never see him again. I probably never will, so I don’t protest.
> 
> It’s Clifford’s sudden wail that separates me from Arlo. His cry of sorrow is so unexpected, so alien to my ears, I immediately pull myself from my older brother’s arms. My eyes fall on Clifford’s sniffling, shaking form. His cheeks drip and his eyes are red from rubbing and puffy with hot tears. It’s enough to break my resolve, so I begin to cry again too. This begins a chain reaction, for Amelia loses it shortly after me. “I didn’t want this deal… not this one… not this one,” her voice is a whimper as she collides into my legs and clamps her fists onto my coat. Elysia, startled by the sudden amount of crying that is happening, joins in as Abner holds her hand. My older brothers are the only ones with dry faces. Even Mother is crying, but you can tell by the way she stares at me that she doesn’t quite fathom what is going on. She’s looking past me, full of emotions and tears about the loss of an offspring. It is purely a maternal instinct from within that brings the sorrow upon her. As all mothers do, she mourns the death of one of her children. She just connects with the simple fact that she created me, but I know she does not really know who I am. I am a dying daughter to her and you are supposed to weep if you fail at the most important job of being a mother—protecting your young. For now, I can tolerate that, so long as she stays on the outer reaches of the room, away from my family. It’s not like she was ever great at her other jobs as our mother, so I don’t think any of us are surprised one of us is going to die. I think we all just thought it would be from something much more simple, like starvation or disease. At least this way, there is no denying the extent of our mother's failure.
> 
> I’m holding Amelia in my arms when the Peacekeepers come to separate me from my family. They escort my mother out first, as she is furthest from me, and then begin the painful process of peeling my siblings off of me. Arlo and Abner are aggressive and loud, to make sure the Peacekeepers understand their reluctance. Clingy and weepy, Elysia and Clifford are the hardest to remove. Their fists are knotted into my clothes and limbs, making it nearly impossible to pull them away. Ameilia shows surprising maturity when the agitated Peacekeeper makes his final trip to tear her away from me. She has been holding onto both my hands the entire time, just looking at my face. Her dark brown eyes that look just like mine are still leaking tears, but there is a certain anger within them that I’ve never seen before.
> 
> “Give them hell,” she says before letting the Peacekeeper walk her into the hallway where my mess of a family waits for their sixth member of the group to return to them. They know their seventh isn’t coming.
> 
> The emotional stress I have just endured is great enough to make me collapse in one of the lonely chairs in the hollow room. My face rests in my hands for only a brief moment before the door opens again. I’m not prepared to see Mrs. Tucker, Levi’s mom, sniffling in the doorway. She must know I can’t do anything. I can make no promises.
> 
> “Hello, Charlie,” she speaks with a tight, dry voice, as if she has been rehearsing what to say in her mind for hours.
> 
> “Mrs. Tucker,” I nod before wiping my nose with my hand. Levi’s mother holds out a handkerchief, one with fine embroidery that makes it seem far too expensive to be in my hands. While it’s a nice offer, I shake my head. I don’t want any favors from her, not if I can’t promise her one in return. I just want to know what she wants. She inhales before beginning, trying to collect herself a little.
> 
>  
> 
> “I know you might find it hard to understand why I’m here,” her chin quivers as she continues, “But to a mother, there is nothing they wouldn’t do for their child.” I swallow hard before cutting her off.
> 
> “Just because my mom is a useless tramp doesn’t mean I don’t know to what extent a mother should go for their children,” my voice comes out a little bit more aggressive than I had intended. I just want her to know that I understand my mother is not a good example of a parent and that I do understand why she’s here. My only confusion comes from what she could possibly ask of me. My sudden hostility causes Mrs. Tucker to start crying again as she sputters out her request.
> 
> “Look after him, please,” her words are useless. How can I honor them if I have any hope of coming home? Do I have any hope of coming home? “He’s your district partner, even if he is young. Can you honor that, if anything?” she suddenly grabs my hands, causing me to pull away in a futile attempt to distance myself from her. I can’t help but wonder if she is referring to my family’s reputation. We are infamously known for our dishonored name. If she thinks I care enough about my family’s reputation that I’ll try to find some kind of redemption by helping her out with Levi, she’s sorely mistaken.
> 
> “I’m not a babysitter,” I reply as I try to look everywhere around the room besides at Mrs. Tucker.
> 
> “No, you’re not, but imagine how you would feel if it were Clifford going into the Games with you,” she gives an exhausted sigh, still holding tightly to my hands, “I’m not asking you to do anything drastic, just be aware of my baby.” Looking at her, I finally realize what she’s asking. She wants to ensure that there is one less tribute in the arena looking to kill her son. She wants me to avoid hunting him, ending him. Surprisingly, that’s the easiest thing she could ask of me. It would have been so much harder if she had requested I become his ally or protect him from the horrors of the arena. I don’t need that kind of baggage.
> 
> “I’ll do what I can,” my words are quiet as I squeeze her hands in an act of sympathy.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, welcome to the trip, man! Thanks for reading. I've already planned out this story pretty much to the end, so hopefully I get it all done at a moderate pace. I hope to take all my readers (if I have any) on an emotional and crazy ride with these Hunger Games, hopefully one that is as good as the actual book was.


End file.
